Fortunate Son
by shelledone
Summary: Anton Redelar has lost it all. Power. Privilege. Respect. And in return... nasty green robes, rotten roommates, and one obnoxious, yet attractive, Heraldtrainee...


Title: Fortunate Son

Rating: PG-13. cursing. sexiness. etc. SLASH.

Disclaimer: Characters mine. Everything else Mercedes Lackey's. Also... it's been awhile since I've been to Velgarth... I blame capitalism. And the nation-state. And the fact that I find myself incapable of reading fiction during the semester. So... if I've got details wrong, forgive me and tell me, so that I may correct mistakes. Thank you.

Summary: Anton recieves an Unpleasant Surprise, a new set of Duties, and a Dunking.

----

Anton Worley Dewitt Redelar was pacing. All in all, the timing could not have been worse. He shook his head, unkempt black bangs falling over his eyes. It had been two days since he had slept, and his personal hygiene had suffered accordingly. The summons had come early this morning, as he'd known they would, and now he found himself cooling his heels outside of his father's study, awaiting the inevitable. He glowered at the heavy wooden doors. His breath formed little clouds in the chill antechamber. Glowering, he rubbed his hands together and blew on them. Damn the weather, damn the damp… damn his father… and the Collegium and possibly the gods as well while he was at it.

He had just collapsed onto the bench across from the entryway when he heard the scrape of wood on stone. Heat flooded into the waiting area and he stood up quickly. His father's valet gave him a nod as he crossed the threshold, into the study. He walked to the center of the room and bowed to his father. To the man in green robes sitting next to him he gave no sign of acknowledgement.

His father ran an appraising glance over his disheveled appearance and raised one bushy eyebrow. He gestured to the empty chair on the other side of the robed man. Anton crossed the room and sat, back stock straight.

"Son."

"Sir?"

Lord Redelar tapped his fingers lightly on the arm of the chair. "I believe you've meet Healer Rion."

"I have." Anton kept his eyes locked on his father.

"We have been discussing your future."

"Have you?" Anton felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. "And… have you reached any conclusions, sir?"

His father exhaled slightly. "That we have."

The healer leaned forward, heavy robes rustling. He held out one hand, callused and stained from hours of pounding herbs. "Anton. You have a Gift."

Anton's fists clenched. "Just as well call it a curse…", he bit out.

Lord Redalar's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something, but the healer beat him to it.

"You may choose to see it that way, yes." The man's voice was utterly reasonable, but Anton could detect a hint of ice beneath the words. "Let us call it a talent then. A talent which must be trained."

"Must it?" Anton was only sixteen, but he'd lived at Court his whole life. He knew how to give a set down. "I'm not a Fetcher, Healer. Nor a Firestarter. Untrained healers do not spiral out of control. My Gift will fade if I ignore it. I intend to do so."

He met the man's eyes fiercely.

"We have a very great need for the Gifted just now… the war with Karse…"

"To hell with Karse."

"We must train as many as we can, as quickly as we can."

"There's a half million people in Haven, Healer. Find someone else!"

The man nodded, his eyes hooded. "Yes. There may be many who have the gift. But…" Again, the steel under the softness of his words. "… they are not now sitting before me. Anton Redelar, I regret that I must inform you," he paused, as if he really did regret what he was about to say. As if he regretted that he was just about to destroy Anton's world. "… I regret that I must insist that you enroll in the Collegium."

Anton felt his pulse begin to hammer. Calm, he told himself, you must be calm. He took a deep breath. "You cannot. I am the Heir to this house."

A hint of a smile crossed the healer's broad face. "I believe you have a brother…?"

"He's an idiot." Anton stated matter-of-factly. He could swear his father's lips twitched. "Completely unsuitable."

"He is young, Anton." His leaned forward to pat his knee. "He will learn."

Anton turned wildly to his father. "You can't do this…" he whispered. "You cannot do this to me…"

Lord Redelar sat back. He shook his head. "You have a duty, son."

"A duty to you. To this House…"

"To our Country. To your King."

Anton's lips curled. "Damn the Ki-"

His father slammed one fist against the arm of his chair. "That I will not tolerate! You will enroll in the Collegium, you will learn… no you will excel, for the pride of our House is at stake… and you will serve as you're bid!"

"So you'll send me to rot, will you?" Anton leapt to his feet. "Rot among the dead and dying. What pride to our House, father?! Should I be just one more faceless soldier on the battlefield, one more pair of hands to wear out in the damned war…" He was practically vibrating with anger.

Lord Redelar regarded him coldly. "You think you are too good to die for your King. This is not how I raised you, my son."

"You raised me to lead. Not follow."

"We who lead also serve." Lord Redelar shook his head. "Even if you were not Gifted, I would not have you for my Heir. Enroll, son, or I will disinherit you."

That was it. Anton felt his vision spin. It was as if the world had frozen. He gaped at his father, disbelieving.

"You…you…"

"Pack your things." Lord Redelar turned away from him. "You will bid us farewell this evening."

The healer rose to his feet and came to stand next to Anton. He bowed to Lord Redelar and then turned to face him. One large hand descended onto his shoulder. Anton regarded it with disgust.

"You needn't pack too much. The Collegium provides almost everything." When Anton didn't respond, the healer continued. "We'll see you tomorrow then, lad? Bright and early?"

"Yes", said Lord Redelar, glancing significantly at his offspring. "You will."

To say that the rest of the day was horrid would have been a gross understatement. Anton spent it in his room, winnowing his belongings into a small pile. No to the Court dress (pale green for the next four years, my boy!). No to the dueling swords. Yes to the books on strategy and politics. Yes to the practice sword. No to various and sundry assorted knick-knacks. Once or twice someone had knocked on the door. He hadn't responded.

By the time that the weak winter sunlight was beginning to fade, he had gathered his things into a single bag. He tied it shut and then flopped down onto his bed. His temples pounded and he closed his eyes. He harbored no illusions about what life as a healer held for him. Grueling work for little thanks. A far cry from the controlling the fortunes of a major House. All of his work, all of his training, for naught. What use had a healer for the connections between the Houses… what did they care for alliances and power? And as for the management of accounts and estates… what healer ever had money?

He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

---

Dinner was of surpassing awfulness. Silence reigned at the table. From time to time, his mother shot him little drawn looks, her hands shaking. His father was eating with a dangerous dispassion that bespoke awful rage.

"It's not that bad."

He looked over at his little brother, Taril. "What?" he growled softly.

A grin split Taril's face. His brown curls flopped over his eyes. At twelve he already promised to be incredibly handsome. A trait off-set by his, in Anton's opinion, complete and total lack of native intelligence.

"Well. It isn't! You're going to be a healer."

"Yes." He shoved a piece of meat into his mouth. "It is."

"You'll be saving lives… you'll get see battlefields…" The sloe eyes turned mournful. "I'll never see battlefields."

"You don't want to."

"How do you know? Seen one?"

Anton applied himself to his potatoes. "You're going to be Heir," he mumbled.

"I know." Taril sighed. "Bloody awful luck, isn't it?"

"Not for you."

Taril shook his head. "Yes it is! I'll have to learn history… and politics… and etiquette." His head drooped. "And probably marry some rotten girl with an odd nose."

Anton looked up from his plate, about to say something biting, but the anxiety on his brother's face was so genuinely disturbing that he softened his tone. "Don't worry. Father's men of business handle most of his affairs anyway."

"Really?"

"For the most part." He shrugged. "They'll probably be ecstatic if you give them freer rein."

The wrinkles disappeared from his younger brother's forehead. "Then that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Anton smiled at him and risked a glance at his father. The look on the man's face assured him that there was going to be no question of "giving the men of business freer rein", but he declined to mention it to Taril. And, for a moment, he could almost find it in his heart to find sympathy for the brat.

---

The morning dawned cold and crisp. Anton got up at dawn, as his father had trained him to do, and went down into the kitchen to get some food. Thank the gods that no else was up yet. The cook gave him a quick nod and dolloped some porridge into a bowl. He poured some coffee out of the already boiling pot, and sat himself under the window to eat.

An hour later, his father came for him. They drove through the icy streets, toward the palace. Anton sat as far away from Lord Redelar as possible, wedging himself against the side of the carriage. His father sat staring straight ahead, hands folded primly in his lap. They pulled up to the gates of the Palace complex and dismounted. Followed by a single guard, they passed onto the Palace grounds.

Already, there were people bustling back and forth across the dead grass. Breakfasts had to be laid, sheets aired, laundry done. The sound of people talking, arguing… the uniforms, the faces… they were all familiar to Anton. He'd grown up among them. He trailed his father towards the Council chamber, and then they took an abrupt right, and began to cross the field towards the Collegia. Suddenly, he felt as if he was stepping into a completely alien world. They passed the buildings where the Blues had their classes, deeper and deeper, until they had come up to the Hall of Healing.

Anton turned to his father.

"Sir."

Lord Redelar fixed him with a hawk-like stare. Anton swallowed.

"Do not disgrace me, son." His voice was heavy with meaning.

Anton found that he could only nod. "That I won't."

After a moment, his father's expression softened. Just a little. "No. I don't think you will."

Then, he turned on his heel, and walked back towards the main buildings. Anton watched his back until he had turned the corner and was gone. Then, squaring his shoulders, he ascended the steps towards the front door, and passed into the Hall.

If he'd thought that the Green next to the Gates was busy, he was in no way prepared for the chaos that greeted him inside the House of Healing. Trainees skittered too and fro. Patients qued in front of different doors, where wheeled about, hobbled along the hallways. Exhausted looking men and women in green trudged towards the exit, to be replaced by a new set, their eyes still blurry with sleep.

Anton froze. He could go through the most complex Court function in his sleep… but this… this he didn't understand. At all. He stood there, bag in his hand, gaping.

A young woman in trainee-greens skidded to halt in front of him. She looked him up and down. He stared back at her steadily. She had an air about her that reminded him of Taril. It made him want to box her ears.

"Oh hello! You're Anton, aren't you!? I'm Anama! Come on! You're late! Late! And Healer Uyralis is waiting for you and if I don't bring you soon I'm sure to catch Hell and… and…!" One deceptively strong hand closed around his wrist. Startled, he found himself being dragged through the hallways.

Anama kept up a running monologue as they stumbled through the corridors, interrupted only by her pressing need to greet _every single person_ that they passed.

"… so anyway… I was taking Intermediate Internal- gods that was awful. Just you wait!- and while we were dissecting… Hey Julis! Yes. He's a new one. Awfully old isn't he!? … and, so anyway, when we got to the liver, we found this yellow thing! And even Healer Theris didn't know what it was, and…"

Anton closed his eyes. His head was beginning to throb. If he could just stop for a moment… just catch his breath… He dug his heels into the floor, bringing them to an abrupt halt. Anama fell against his chest with a squeak, and he stumbled backwards, unprepared for the sudden weight. With a pair of yelps, they went sprawling to the floor. Anton went down with a thud, the healer-trainee landing on top of him.

As his head cleared, he found her staring down at him with resentful eyes. At least, he though muzzily, she has stopped talking. She opened her mouth. He groaned.

"Now, I don't know what you think you're doing, Mr. Nobleman's son! But let me tell you, things are different here than they are at Court, and I do not appreciate…"

He grunted and shoved her off of him. She landed on her behind with another indignant squeak. He pulled himself up to his knees.

"Don't you ever stop talking?"

Her mouth formed a little moue. "No. I don't suppose I do. Which in no way excuses your behavior, let me tell you…"

Ignoring her, he pulled himself to his feet.

"Aren't you going to help me up?"

He glared down at her. If she had been a Court Lady, he would've gone down on bended knee to aid her. As it was, she could stand her own damn self up.

"No," he said curtly.

"Well!" She rose. Her hands were on her hips almost before she had finished standing. "Well… hmm…" She gave him a shrewd look, which he returned steadily. Finally, she broke the gaze, a little smile on her lips. She grabbed his arm again and set off, at a slightly less breakneck pace.

They were deep within the building before she spoke again.

"Right. This is Healer Uralys office. Don't let her fool you, she's tough as leather. Just be polite. You'll be fine. I have to run. Classes!" She shoved him at the door, and turned on her heel. He caught a glimpse of her back, and then she sprinted around a corner.

Insane, he decided. This place makes people insane. I am going to go insane. He stepped forward and knocked forthrightly on the door.

"Come in!" The voice was both dulcet and perfunctory. He pushed the door open, and stepped into the most… pastel… room he had ever seen. A slight, dark woman with liquid eyes regarded him from behind a table. Her black hair was pulled back tightly into a bun. He walked to the center of the room, and waited.

"Ah. Yes. You must be Anton." She rose to her feet, and he noted, to his dismay, that she was just an inch or so taller than him. It occurred to him that most people were. She stepped out from behind the desk, and walked around him slowly. He felt uncomfortably like a horse put up for sale.

"Yes, ma'am."

"So polite." She smiled warmly. "I must welcome you, trainee."

"Thank you, ma'am." There was something of the hunting cat in her. He decided right then that he never wanted to see Healer Uralys angry.

"Mm-hmm." She sat down on the edge of the table. "You're older than most of our trainees. You've been studying with the Unaffiliates, haven't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Governance. Economics. Political History. Karsite."

"Karsite?" One perfectly groomed eyebrow rose. "Excellent. Mm-hmm. Good. That means we can enroll you full time into Healing classes. You'll have made up for lost time in no time."

His heart sank. He had liked the courses he had been taking. To be denied the company of the Unaffiliates was just one more barrier separating him from his old world. He didn't relish the prospect.

"With all due respect, ma'am. I'd like to continue my studies."

She pursed her lips. "Why don't you try out your new schedule, and then see if you have time?"

Better than nothing. He nodded. "Alright."

"Good." She clapped her hands. Without warning, she hopped to her feet and stuck her head out the door. "Wethe! WETHE! Come here!" She snapped her fingers. Another trainee appeared in the doorway, a young man of medium build with buck teeth and unkempt hair. He waved at Anton. Anton did not wave back. "Wethe. This is Anton. He'll be rooming with you, I think. Help him get settled, will you?"

Anton stepped forward, obviously dismissed. He followed the young man into the corrider. As they walked, he found that he couldn't keep his eyes off of the other young man's mouth. Those teeth… were truly…

"You've a big nose."

He blinked. "Wha…?"

"That's all I'm saying. Bloody huge. Like a hawk."

"Excuse me?"

"It's just big. That's all."

The trainee lapsed into silence. Anton stared at him, flabbergasted. Eventually, the other boy met his gaze.

"What I'm saying, is… you're not perfect. Alright, sunshine? So you'd do well not to focus on other people's imperfections."

Anton touched his nose. It was a trifle large.

"And you're short, too."

Enough was enough. "I am not short."

The boy paused. He looked down at Anton. It was enough. Anton scowled.

"And scrawny."

"You're teeth," Anton grit out. "Are gigantic. Like a beaver. Or a rat. And your hair is unkempt. And I could wipe the floor with you, despite a lack of obvious muscle mass, you bloody scarecrow!"

To his astonishment, Wethe began to laugh. He clapped Anton on the shoulder. "Oh you'll do, Nobs! You'll do just fine."

---

The first few weeks were a blur. He was either running to class, or fetching ingredients, or up on nightwatch, with specific instructions to get a real Healer then minute anyone so much as wheezed. His head hurt all the time. After years of disuse, it was an uphill battle to access his Gift. The truth was, Anton had known that he saw things differently for years. When he was younger, it was as if the world had a bright green overlay. It wasn't until he'd started classes with the Unaffiliates that he had realized exactly what sort of abilities he had possessed. Once he'd figured it out, he'd done his level best to cut himself off from them. No Healer-greens for Anton Redelar.

For eight years, he had built up his walls. In the space of four weeks, the Healers of the Collegium had dismantled them. He felt awful. It didn't help that his fellow trainees were A) younger than him and B) very, very strange. He'd quickly learned that behavior that worked well in Court didn't fly here. Etiquette, grace, casual flirtations, they fell by the wayside. His new peers were at once strangely rowdy, and depressingly naive. Stuck with the first-years, he was beginning to feel like a strange combination of circus exhibit and wise old uncle, neither being a role he particularly relished.

"Anton."

He sighed, and poked his head over the side of the bunk. "What?"

"I have a question."

"Yes?" He marked the page in his book of Karsite verbs and turned his attention to the matter at hand. "What?"

"'s nothing."

He rolled his eyes, and said, more kindly, "Come on, Wethe. Out with it."

"Girls."

Dear gods. "What about them?"

"How do you… how…?"

As if, he thought to himself, there could possibly be a subject I am more ill-at-ease with. "I believe, generally, one flirts with them. Or attempts to. And then one is slapped or kissed, accordingly. Eventually, too, most people end up marrying one."

"Don't make fun of me!"

He pushed himself over the side of the bunk, and landed on the floor. Wethe glared at him balefully. He sat down on the floor, legs crossed.

"Alright, lad." He closed his eyes. "Any particular girl?"

"None of your business!"

"Compliment her. Give her a gift."

Wethe narrowed his eyes considering. "It's that easy?"

Anton shrugged. How should I know? But, he answered with confidence. "Yes."

"Oh. Good." Wethe nodded. "You can keep reading now."

"Thank you." Anton grinned, amused despite himself, and hauled himself back into the top bunk to continue parsing sentences.

---

It was nearly Mid-Winter. Anton stared out the window of the Library and wondered how the season could have passed so quickly. A full term at the Healer's Collegium, and he had barely left the grounds. There was so much to do. Always another paper, or a new mixture to grind. He couldn't say he loved the work, but at least it kept him occupied.

He turned the letter over in his hands. His family had already returned to their House in Arteville a few weeks before. They'd be there until the Council came back into session, a month from now. His mother had written him, in carefully couched terms, that if he wanted to spend the Midwinter holiday at home, there was certainly no one stopping him… but given how very angry father still was… perhaps… maybe… and didn't he have friends he'd like to see over the break! He sighed, and set his pen to the stationary he'd brought with him. Dearest Mother… and all that rot… nono… don't mind spending the Break here. Just me and all the heartsick prepubescents who live too far away to go home. I shall gratefully provide them a shoulder to weep on when they have had too much non-alchoholic punch. Your loving son and so on. Bah!

He sealed the note and then buried his head in his hands. Over the last few weeks, he hadn't had time to think. Now he did so. His thoughts were not particularly pleasant. I knew it, he crowed in internal triumph. Knew that this was tantamount to exile… and they may say they're proud, but they are ashamed. He grinned bitterly. To think, only three months ago, he had been at the top of the ladder. His peers respected him, he was well on his way to a brilliant political career, and now? Now even his bloody Lakelander roommate didn't respect him. With a growl, he stood and pocketed his supplies. The pale- green robe drapped unbecomingly around him. At least it was warm.

He lifted it so that the edges wouldn't drag as he stalked towards the entrance. Without warning, a white-clad chest placed itself into his field of vision. He smacked right into it, and the owner gave a "woof" of surprise.

"Watch where you're going, why don't you?" he hissed. Apparently, the rest of his Collegium was rubbing off on him. Gone were the smooth tones he was wont to employ.

The owner of the chest looked down at him. He found himself staring into warm brown eyes… a slightly off-kilter mouth… light brown hair draped over the ears… Anton blinked. The Herald trainee grinned.

"Sorry. Careless of me, not getting out of your way."

"Bugger off." Oh dear. I really am spending too much time around Wethe.

The trainee sketched a bow. "Of course, m'lord. As you say."

Anton's eyes narrowed. The mockery struck a chord. Three months ago the bastard would've bloody bowed to him in earnest, or lived to regret it. He could've made the trainee's life miserable.

The Herald straightened up. "Wait… I know you… don't I?"

"Doubt it." Anton snarled. "Don't often run with Heralds."

"Smart move. Might catch a nasty disease." The man scratched his head. Recognition dawned. His mouth dropped open. "Oh. Dear gods. You're Bloody Awful Redelar, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?!"

"Right. Now you have manners." He shook his head, grin widening. "I can't believe it. Gods. What did you do, mug a healer?"

"I am an apprentice healer."

The Herald's lip curled. "Now there's a reason not to get sick."

Although he didn't care for being a healer, although he privately thought that his talents were being wasted, Anton drew himself up. "I am quite skilled. You'd be lucky to have me work on you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he said primly.

The trainee laughed. "No thanks all the same. I still can't believe it. Bloody Awful Redelar."

"My name is Anton."

"Not any more, it ain't." The Herald drapped a companionable arms across his shoulders. "Not since you and that pack of yours shoved Shifti into the pond. She nearly got pneumonia."

Anton found himself leaning against the Herald without quite meaning to. He thought back over the months. Shifti? Pond? Oh. The frizzy haired wench with the mean mouth. Why had they thrown her in again? Something about Rethew not being able to get into her pants, was it? Whatever. Not his idea, and not his fault if she was going to go around making trouble for her betters.

The herald was staring down at him bemusedly. "Having fun?"

"Mmm. What?!"

"You're… uh… pratically rubbing against me there, boy-o."

"I am not." He was. And he was going to stop. Right now. Really. With an effort, he pulled himself out of the other boy's grip.

"I don't say you had to stop. Just clarifying your intentions, as it were."

Anton stepped back, and looked back up at the Herald. Those eyes. That mouth. It made him want to… to… to do things that Lord Redelar's eldest son had no business doing. He shook himself. What on Earth are you doing? Stop this instant!

What he really wanted to do was… was… He blinked. The trainee was still watching him, and, if anything, his smile had grown. Anton scowled.

"You're really short, you know." The trainee shook his head. "I can't believe a little bastard like you really made all of our lives so miserable."

Anton drew himself up. He was still a good eight inches shorter than the Herald. And, he realized, to his growing chagrin, not nearly as broad. He was, in fact, he realized with a rush, rather delicate-looking. No, not delicate, he told himself, scrappy. Like a terrier.

"That reflects poorly on you then, Herald. I've taken on plenty of your kind, arms training and all. How's that for short?!"

"Yeah. I remember." The herald rolled his eyes. "But… that was a couple of years ago. Things have changed, little one."

"Little one?! You bloody…" Anton stuck a finger into his chest. "Arrogant… take me on, Herald. We'll see what's changed!"

There was a pause, and then the Herald nodded. "Alright. Yeah. Let's do that." Without warning, he gripped Anton's wrist and began to drag him to the door. He lead the shorter boy down the hall, to the steps, and out into the chill evening air. Anton glared at his captor, but since he was going along anyway, and since the Herald's fingers on his skin felt surprisingly… good, he didn't protest.

---

Facing the trainee, he still hadn't gotten the boy's name, not that it matter, across the patch of dead grass, he was beginning to feel a little less confident. The feeling was not helped by the fact that they seemed to have gathered the crowd. What had been a private challenge, was now taking on the proportions of a duel. Anton could hear them beting, and the odds weren't in his favor. The crowd was mostly heralds too, and some Bards. Not an Unaffiliate in sight. He wasn't nervous, but he was beginning to feel rather alone.

From his position across the circle, the herald gave him a roguish look. "Want to make a wager, little one?"

"Your loss, herald."

"Don't you want to know what you'll have to pay?"

"What would be the point in that?" Anton bared his teeth. "You want to chat or do you want to fight?"

"Just waiting on you, short stuff."

Anton smiled and stepped forward. The herald waited, weight balance evenly, legs slightly apart. They stared at each other, and then, without warning, Anton struck. His rush caught the herald by surprise. Hooking one leg behind the other boy's knees, he twisted his hips, sending his opponent to the ground. He followed the herald as he fell, ready to pin his neck.

They hit the ground with a thud, and suddenly, the herald undualated. His hips shot up, his legs shot out, and then Anton was on his back, on the ground. With a hiss, he tried to knee the herald in the groin, and found his knee trapped. He shook. He fought. The herald hung on, moving with him like a snake. He moved left, and the herald was there. He moved right, and the herald was there.

Without other recourse, he opened his mouth a sunk his teeth into the herald's sleeve.

"Ow. You little bastard." The herald slammed his head back against the ground, and he went still. Above him, the other boy shifted his grip so that he well and truly pinned. "So, little one," the voice was right next to his ear. "Do you give up?"

Anton struggled. It was no use. He was pinned. "Yes." He grit out. "Now get off of me!"

The herald released him and sat up. Anton's head was ringing. For a second, he though about just staying on the ground. Easier. No headaches. No mocking faces in a circle around him. It sounded like a wonderful idea.

There was a hand in front of his nose. He ignored it, and started to leverage himself up. His head spun, and he lay back down.

Without warning, a pair of hands descended, and he was bodily lifted and set on his feet. He started to stumble, but a pair of strong arms caught him and held him until he'd regained his balance. He resisted the urge to bury his face in them.

With some trepidation, he looked over the crowd. There were not a few smug smirks among the onlookers. He scowled. His opponent was looking particularly smug. An idea flashed into his brain. Hauling back, he took a swing at the trainee.

Then he was back on his back. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, but, once again, the trainee was straddling his chest. At least he looked less amused. One hand was on Anton's throat.

"Not so honorable, m'lord."

"Mmph. But effective."

"Not this time."

"No." Anton sighed. "I yield."

The herald fixed him with a hard stare. "Swear it?"

"I do."

"Good." Again, he was lifted to his feet. He looked up into the herald's eyes, and realized that what he wanted, more than anything, was to wrap his legs around the other boy's torso and… and… his imagination ran out of material. How did one proceed from there?

He could feel himself beginning to turn pink. With a muttered curse, he bent and began to brush himself off. Grass everywhere. Not that it mattered, given how threadbare the damn robes where anyway. Who would notice another stain?

The crowd was watching him. He met their eyes uncivilly. Got to hell, he thought. The lot of you. I've made some of you cry… how's that? How's that?!

The herald coughed. "So. The forfeit."

"What do you want?" Anton asked with some trepidation. At this point, the Herald could ask for almost anything. Of course, Anton could say no, but he had the feeling that he'd just end up in the dirt again.

"It's the Break, you see. But we still have personal chores…"

"Mm-hmm." He didn't like where this was going.

"You know. Cooking, cleaning… rather inconvenient."

"Y-ess." Anton's shoulders slumped he knew what was coming.

"Great!" The herald swung another arm around his shoulders. "So… we'll see you tomorrow morning? At the stables?

"We?"

"Right. Me and some friends. We could ALL use your help."

Anton sighed. "Yes. I'll be there."

"Good. Wear something old." Then, as an after thought, the herald swooped in so that they were nose to nose. Anton's eyes crossed, and the herald leaned in. He backed up with an undignified squeak and his hands came out protectively. Without pausing, the herald brushed his lips over Anton's nose.

"Gah! Guh… gah… you… nose!" Anton glared. "You!"

"My name's Jevin."

"Nose!"

"Yes." Jevin leaned in again.

"Back!" Anton squeaked again. Jevin regarded him warmly. "Back!"

"Alright… alright, pipsqueak. Relax."

"Pipsqueak! Nose!" Anton's mind whirled. "I hate you."

"Mm-hmm."

"I do."

"See you tomorrow."

---

The day dawned early and cold. Shivering, Anton shrugged into a pair of pants and a shirt. No robes today. He refused to be trailing draperies into the bloody muck. Instead, he pulled on an old sweater and some gloves. As quietly as possible, he dropped to the floor. A pair of baleful eyes meet him from the depths of the bunk.

"You're loud!"

Anton glared at his roommate. "Sorry." He snapped.

"You should be. I lost money on you."

"You were there!?" Anton shook his head. "Why didn't you help me?"

"Bet on you, didn't I? Shouldn't have!"

Anton shot him a rude gesture, and was given one in return. With a grunt, he turned to pull on his boots. As he was reaching for the door, Wethe spoke.

"You don't really know anything about girls, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… you were looking awfully comfy with that herald-bloke."

Anton took a deep breath. "Go to hell, Wethe."

"Hey. Don't take it out on me that you can't fight…"

"Care to try, brat?!"

"No. 'm gonna try to sleep. Have fun."

Wethe pulled the covers over his head, and Anton pushed out into the cold corridor.

---

There was a wind blowing, and by the time he reached the stables, he was well and truly chilled. He opened the door as quietly as possible, and slipped inside. Candles burned in the sconces, sending flickering shadows over the wall. Jevin was already there, along with two other trainees. They had all already stripped off their coats. Anton noted with a flash of approval that Jevin had nice arms.

The herald looked up, and waved. "Hey there, little buddy!"

"Go to Hell." He said reasonably.

"Uh huh." He gestured to the people behind him. "C'mon guys." The two figures approached and Anton noticed that one was a girl. They both gave him unpleasant looks. He scowled at them. The girl handed him a pitch-fork.

"Stalls need mucking."

"Wonderful." He rolled his eyes at her and took the tool. Nobody moved. With a long-suffering sigh, he entered the depths of the stables. He looked over his shoulder, and all three heralds had arranged themselves on bales of hay. "Enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Very much," Jevin nodded agreeably.

"Fuck you." Anton shouldered the shovel and began to work. Ten minutes passed. Half an hour. He could hear them behind him. When he turned, the girl was asleep. Jevin waved. He sent him a rude gesture. The work continued. The sun rose.

By the time he had finished the stalls, he was sweaty and weary and covered with a variety of awful smelling substances. He turned around to find that the trainees were no longer there. Great, he thought. Absolutely wonderful. He stowed the pitchfork and walked out into the morning light. No sooner had he made it into the fresh air, than he was once again swooped up. Without looking, he knew it was Jevin.

"What is your problem?!"

The herald didn't reply. Anton held onto his neck. There didn't seem to be much else to do. Motivated by a sense of justice, he rubbed some of the muck into the other boy's hair. Then. He was airborne.

"Yeargh!" He flailed into the air and hit the water with splash. It was so cold it nearly drove the breath from his lungs. Oh gods. Gods. His hands started to go numb. Balefully, he glared at the herald on the shore. Gasping, he tried to keep his head above water. He could swim, but he'd never swum in a half-frozen lake before. Paddling desperately, he managed to pull himself into the shore.

There was, he noticed, a crowd of people waiting. Coughing, he knelt on the chilled sand. The breeze kicked up and he began to shiver. Someone was talking, but he didn't understand what they were saying. So damn cold. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet. His eyes swam into focus.

"… taste of your own medicine, you damned prick…"

The speaker was a young woman with curly blond hair. Shifti, he thought. I remember her. He blinked at her. It was awfully cold. He was beginning to feel a bit sleepy.

"Congratulations." He nodded. "Was that satisfying?"

"Yes." She stuck her chin out resolutely. "You and your damned…"

He shrugged. "Blame yourself, for having the bad taste to sleep with Rethew."

"You…" she shook her finger at him, and then blinked. "You're awfully short!"

"Go… t-to… H-hell…" he was starting to shiver. "All of you g-g-go to Hell!" He pushed through the crowd, back towards the Hall of Healing. Bath he told himself. You will have a nice warm bath. You will use all the hot water. Bath. His hair was beginning to stiffen, and his limbs felt heavy. Without really thinking, he sat down.

Somewhere, someone said, "Aw, shit. Who's got a cloak?"

Something white and heavy fell over his shoulders. He clutched at it involuntarily, and sneezed. Then, he was being picked up again. This time, he didn't fight. Warm. Good to be warm.

He curled mutely against whoever had had the kindness to carry him. Screw them all, anyway. He didn't care. The top of his head brushed against someone's chin. They were heading for the Herald's Collegium.

They ascended a flight of stairs, and he was deposited unceremoniously into a tub. Hot water flowed over him.

"Yah! Hot!"

"Quit whining, we've got it on lukewarm." He didn't recognize the voice.

"Yeah, you've got to warm up." Or that one.

"Shifti didn't and she got sick. If you get sick, we're in trouble." Or that one.

"You're already in trouble," he mumbled up at them. "Just bloody wait."

"Ri-i-ight." The first speaker replied. "You've got one Hell of a rep, trainee. I think half the teachers here wouldn't blame us if we did worse."

"You seem," Anton shuddered. "To have taken it personally. Don't. I don't know your names. Never did. If you made yourselves targets, that's your fault," he shrugged abdicating responsibility.

"Occurs to you that you've got a bulls-eye on your back, man?"

Anton cocked his head. "There's not much I can do about that, is there?"

"You could try being a little nicer."

"You just threw me in the lake," he growled.

"No. I did." He looked up to find Jevin peering down at him. His clothes were soaked, but he was glad that he was still wearing them. He closed his eyes, to get away from that piercing stare.

"Felt good, did it?" Anton sighed. "Proud of yourself?"

"Not particularly." The trainee sat down on the edge of the tub. "Actually. I feel rotten."

"That's funny. Me too," Anton replied scathingly.

"I'm catching Hell from Reina. Stupid horse has a point."

"Being?"

"That I shouldn't stoop to your methods."

Enough! Anton sat bolt upright, spraying the trainee with water. "Look. Herald. Jevin." To his dismay his voice started to shake. "I've lost everything. Power. Position. My family is ashamed. My friends don't come near me. For the last three months I have been surrounded by children the age of my brother. Odd children. My future is dead." He clenched his fists. "All so that I can spend my life patching up bloody idiots like you… that's it. A constant selection of wounded bodies. How useful."

To his shame, his eyes were starting to tear up. He buried his face in his hands.

"Can you understand? I could've been a bloody Lord. But I'm not. Not anymore. The lot of you bloody rank me, now. Dammit." He pounded the water. "It's… it's…" he sighed. "I hate it." He said simply.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Then, Jevin reached down to stroke his hair. To his utter shame, Anton responded. At this point, he decided, he would probably accept a caress from anyone. Just to be touched. Just for the connection.

Then, without warning, Jevin was in the tub too.

Anton regarded him warily. The trainee leaned in.

"I'm so sorry, little one." And he bent down, and their lips met. Anton rose up to meet him. Above him, he heard clapping. Jevin lifted his head.

"Show's over!"

"But… Jev…"

"I mean it."

"Alright! Come on, lads. Haven't had breakfast yet, anyway."

"Jevin's having some!"

"Eggs on toast!"

"Hahahah!"

The door closed behind them. Anton curled up against his chest. "I hate your friends." Jevin's chest thrummed under his hands.

"They hate you, too."

"I know."

There was pause. Then, Jevin added, "I don't hate you."

"Bloody good for you."

"Do you hate me?" he asked softly.

Anton pulled the herald closer. "No. I don't hate you. But if you pull a stunt like that again, I'll do something awful to you."

"Like what, shorty?"

"You cannot even imagine."

Jevin leaned down to plunder his mouth. Anton dissolved into the embrace. It was several minutes before either came up for air.

"We should probably, er, get you out of these wet clothes?"

"Uh huh."

"And into some blankets?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay." They rose out of the water. Jevin looked at him appraisingly. "I had a dog once… one of those little terriers with all the hair… and when they get wet…"

"Do not finish your sentence." Anton shook his head. It looked like he was going to have to take charge if anything was going to get done. "Where are your rooms?"

"They… uh…"

"Take me to them." He nodded resolutely. Jevin grinned at him, and they began to amble down the hall. And, they reached his rooms, and fell into bed and did things that the son of Mikah Theril Gorvin Westin Redelar should never have been doing. Ever.

The End. For now.


End file.
